


an act too often neglected

by waitfortheclick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Kitchen Sex, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Table Sex, Vaginal Fingering, briefly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11874429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfortheclick/pseuds/waitfortheclick
Summary: Screw poetry, it’s you I want,your taste, rainon you, mouth on your skin.- Late Night, Margaret AtwoodWe've been over this: I don't like poetry. Put up or shut up.- Meg Masters, S7E21





	an act too often neglected

**Author's Note:**

> This, like "split like a cell", is set sort of nebulously in season 7 after Meg joins them and right before the showdown with Dick.

He pushes her against the fridge, softer this time than the last, pressing into her and ghosting his lips over hers.

"Clarence?"

"Castiel."

"Cas, what is this? What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not beekeeping."

She laughs, jubilant, and he takes the opportunity to latch onto her neck. Her fingers run through his hair and she moans. Outside, moths are launching themselves at the window, tapping against the glass, and his tongue is in her mouth. The metal cord is clicking against the bulb as the ceiling fan whooshes and her shirt is yanked up over her bra.

"Kitchen table." She watches in wonder as he nods, distracted, eyes glazed over. She thinks: Maybe this does touch him. Up on the table, she shrugs off her jacket, but keeps her shirt; she's curious, wants to know if he's got plans. He lifts her to undo her jeans, unhurried still, pushing them down to mid thigh. Doesn't touch her underwear. Sets her back down.

"What do you have planned, tree topper." Her voice is hushed, an intimate, hesitant tone she hasn't heard from herself in a long time. He just smiles, pushes between her knees and kisses her.

"You taste like grass clippings."

"I visited a Japanese tea ceremony." He pulls down one cup of her bra, sucks a nipple into his mouth.

"Japan?" She gasps. "Why were you in Japan?"

"I enjoy it." His hands are smooth and warm on her thighs. "I enjoy you."

"Shut up." She bites his lower lip as his hand slides down, down into her underwear. So slow and sweet it makes her tense and screw her eyes shut tight. "Fuck."

"This is it. This is all we have."

"Cas, what-" His fingers slide along her labia; she feels like she's been wet for ages.

"We're riding into an impossible war tomorrow." He's right up against her, holding her firmly and whispering into her ear. "If I ever lose myself again at least I'll have had this." Overwhelmed, still wanting more, the pads of his fingers rubbing firmly against her clit, she lets out a frustrated sob.

"I swear, I swear to God or whoever gives a shit about me, if you tell anyone I just made that noise I'll-" He doesn't say anything, just kisses her and slips a finger up inside her cunt. It's a squeeze with her thighs confined and she bites hard on his shoulder through his coat; the reaction borne less from pain than a feverish want. She feels his hand wrap tentatively around her hair and she nods, dizzy. He pulls firmly, moving from between her legs to her side as he guides her to lie on her back. 

"What if we break the table?"

"Then we break the table."

He starts to slide his finger out and she reaches to grab at his wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking your pants off."

"Don't." She presses her lips together and he just nods. He just nods and calmly crosses her wrists on the table above her head, pushes her underwear to the side. The refrigerator hums and he covers her mouth softly with his hand. She hums and he slides another finger inside. There's a muffled sound against his hand as he starts fucking her slowly, building in tempo.

She doesn't want to do anything but take it. Doesn't want to play coy or rough or even clench up. She feels like she's going slightly cross-eyed from the way his fingers glide into her, out again; friction around the edges of her slick hole, with her legs pressed together. The drag makes her toes curl. She thinks, breathlessly, that she will be soft, open, let him step up and fill her up, give her more.

Where in the world did he learn this? Not just the mechanics, but the fervor, the attention to detail. He's watching her face so intently; she thinks he wants to crawl inside her. What if he did that? Bright light spilling out from the cracks of her ruined vessel. She's delirious, not thinking clearly. Drunk on Castiel pulling his fingers out and pushing back in with three.

It's tight, an almost unbearable pressure. She thinks she can feel every ridge of his knuckles inside her, his fingerprints. She wants to spread her legs and beg for it, so she's grateful for the jeans around her thighs, the hand on her mouth. But then he's removing it, letting her grunt for a moment, "Ah ah ah!" before kissing her. This, too, she wonders where he learned it. Nothing like that first time, so much better. Rubbing his lips against hers like trying to transfer scent, like an animal, holding her jaw steady with the hand that isn't fucking her senseless.

She feels liquefied, like she's got the ocean flowing through her veins. Full of water and salt, absolutely drenched. She's certain his fingers must be pruning.

He doesn't say anything, and she's so glad. She doesn't think she could stand it, not with this mood he's in. Too intense, too much. He bends down to suck on her left nipple and she arches into it, hands scrabbling at the sticky laminate tabletop. Clamping down on his thick fingers, like she's trying to suck him inside. His thumb rubbing around and around like she's too slippery to get a good grip. She doesn't know if the tease is intentional but it's delicious to think it might be.

She feels like she could happily take it for hours but this, like all good things, must come to an end. She thinks, ridiculously, "Stay gold, Ponyboy!" Then he's pushing all three fingers in deep, curling them insistently up and rubbing his thumb with purpose against her clit.

She's teetering at the top of the highest roller coaster and almost chickens out, almost, almost ruins it for herself by thinking. Then she's overtaken by momentum and groaning, breathless, squeezing his fingers hard as she comes. She's desperate, gasping for air, his fingers steady, dependable, inside and on her. 

She manages, "Jesus Christ, Clarence, you're a man I could set my watch to." Whatever that means.

When she finally stops moaning and curling in on herself with mini crunches, she makes herself focus on Castiel's face. But he's - he's gone. She thinks, "No no no no" but she says, "I've never been very reciprocal anyway." Because he doesn't look scared, or lost, but he looks beatific, not like something that should be practically wrist deep in her cunt.

So Meg shoves up onto her elbows, hauls herself up and away, and his fingers slide right out of her. She sighs, tugs down her shirt and straightens her underwear and fastens her jeans. She shifts, wrinkles her nose, insides and folds still all gooey. Through it all, he stands quietly, staring at his hand with a look of wonder. He pulls his fingers apart, rotating his hand, liquid clear and viscous and shining in the kitchen light.

"Cas," she says, too soft, and clears her throat, "Castiel, remember when we learned about hand washing? Back at the hospital? Why don't you show me."

**Author's Note:**

> Half written years ago and finished recently. Many thanks to my beta, Tiny Rick!


End file.
